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I've been musing about a common theme that crops up in Poetry circles these days: Jealousy. Now before you get the idea that this is going to be some self righteous diatribe about what's tearing our blessed art form apart, be assured I'm as prone as the rest. I always seem to catch myself eyeing the line-ups for literary and music festivals, or getting flyers for a new one-person show in the post, or scanning literary journals to see who just got the big thumbs up or a fortuitous nomination for a major prize. At the same time, other poets approach me and ask "How's it going?" in such a way that it really implies "Landed any biggies recently?" After a few beers and a few veiled barbs some might wonder aloud why certain big organisations have stopped ringing them up so frequently. I could judge them harshly but I myself know that little pang, that shameful song of "What about me?" and its surly follow up "It's just not fair!" Sometimes I seek to bury that feeling deep down, there's nothing productive that comes from it so why indulge it? But then again, that voice is correct. It isn't fair. The poetry scene is one small pie and if you get a big slice don't hang around expecting seconds. It isn't fair. Some poets are more charismatic than others and charisma counts for a lot. It isn't fair. A great deal of the British public don't like poetry, your poet's poet will only satisfy the tastes of the minority. It isn't fair. You-know-who gets a lot of gigs because lots of people fancy them. It isn't fair. Working hard is the only way to climb but that doesn't mean all hard workers will become climbers. It isn't fair. It isn't fair because it's like every other niche in today's society, but for some reason people seem to expect it from poetry. As if there was some invisible poetry karma fairy with a magic wand ready to make things right for every noble, genuinely gifted poet that ever stoically suffered for their art. This fairy might be distantly related to the god that helps people win Oscars and Grammies, while others starve to death elsewhere. The fairy isn't there, baby. You might as well replace it with Clint Eastward, pointing his rifle at Gene Hackman's face in Unforgiven, whispering "Deserve's got nuffin to do with it." before pulling the trigger. A little pang, just in the stomach, an emotional tic that you will never lose. All part of being homo sapiens. Might as well get used to it, it really isn't fair. Now, isn't there a poem you should be writing?Eastwood Saloon scene
3:01 PM
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